Our conservatories have
offered very different end-of-year shows. I was quite keen to see the Guildhall’s
Owen Wingrave, not least since I have
never seen the opera, and wanted to know whether it was quite as bad, Gloriana-bad, as (almost) everyone says
it is. Alas, the diary did not permit. The Royal Academy, however, offered a
splendid double-bill of Dido and Aeneas and The Lighthouse. For something
entirely different, the Royal College put on Offenbach’s La Vie parisienne, in an ‘English version by Alistair Beaton, by
arrangement with D’Oyly Carte Opera Trust Ltd’. My heart sank a little at the
mention of D’Oyly Carte, fearing that we might be in for something akin to the
dread Gilbert and Sullivan. (I should almost
rather hear Donizetti!) However, Beaton’s version proved relatively resistant
to such temptation; more to the point, the performers ensured a duly sparkling
performance. Offenbach might not be musical champagne, but an unpretentious
prosecco – chilled, if admittedly devoid of much in the way of flavour, let
alone complexity – will sometimes do better than an overpriced version of the ‘real
thing’. (Not that my mind might yet again be wandering back towards the tedium
of Gloriana...!)

The tradition of giving
Offenbach’s opéras bouffes in English
is venerable, extending back to the 1872 British premiere at the Holborn
Theatre, again in an adaptation. There was even a film version made, in both
French and English, in 1936. Without feeling especially strongly about the
matter, I slightly missed the sound of the French language; however, I suspect
that, given a cast of young, mostly Anglophone singers, the immediacy gained,
not least in the spoken sections, was compensation enough. (The preponderance
of dialogue reflects the work’s origins as a piece for the Palais-Royal, as
opposed to Offenbach’s accustomed, so-aptly-named Théâtre de la Gaîté.) There
is, after all, nothing to prevent one from travelling for a little of the vie parisienne oneself. Beaton made a
virtue out of translation by having the original Swedish noble couple, the
Baron and Baroness de Gondremarck, become Lord and Lady Ellington, thereby
permitting jokes about the English abroad, their views of ‘foreigners’, and so
forth. Offenbach had already reduced the
original five acts to four; here we saw a three-act version, which, if
occasionally it lost something in terms of motivation, ensured that the piece
did not outstay its warm welcome.

Every element of Jo Davies’s
production was a joy. It did not seek depth or impose it where there was none –
though that can on occasion work – but concentrated on sharp direction of the
performers against a backdrop of views, or suggested, views of Paris. Bo Bailey’s
designs, from what seemed to be the Gare d’Orsay of the first act, to the
Moulin Rouge and Eiffel Tower of the last. Kay Shepherd’s choreography
contributed greatly to the tightness of overall effect, whilst the coordination
between stage direction and choral singing – a crack team, this! – really had
to be seen and heard to be believed. The chorus not only sang, as my companion
remarked, as if with one voice; it moved and danced with one, too – except, of
course, when everyone had to be doing his own thing, in which case that was
equally well accomplished.

Michael Rosewell seemed in
his element conducting the excellent RCM Opera Orchestra. The last thing one
would want here is even a shred of sentimentality; there was none to be
discerned. Rather, the tightness of ensemble on stage was mirrored, doubtless
to a good extent engendered, by that in the pit. Peter Kirk made an affecting,
but not too affecting, Gardefeu; one believed just enough that he might have
something equating to love for Métella, but equally well in his dandyism. (The
costumes certainly helped!) Hannah Sandison’s character was less well-formed as
Métella, but she did not come well out of the rehashing of the work; Sandison
certainly sang well enough though. Rosemary Braddy and Morgan Pearse both shone
in their different ways as the English noble couple: the former dignified and
lovely of voice, the latter not only impressive in his baritone but adept at
the comic timing of sending himself up. Filipa van Eck increasingly stole the
show as the glovemaker, Gabrielle, whether in her assumed guise as Austrian
military widow – cue a good number of Alpine jokes – or as the naval wife of
Bobinet’s assumed admiralty (another fine performance, by Luke D Williams). Van
Eck’s vocal performance was equally impressive: definitely one to watch. Vasili
Karpiak proved a scene-stealing Brazilian – outrageous in every sense. But
there were no weak links, and the ensemble really was the thing. It will soon
be time for me to return to Wagner, in London (at the Proms), Seattle, and
Salzburg; Offenbach proved quite an amuse-gueule.